


The Matchbox

by Weisse_Rose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Realism, Pining Sherlock, Resolved Pining, Resolved Romantic Tension, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weisse_Rose/pseuds/Weisse_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets to see things from Sherlock's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Matchbox

Sherlock frowns at the matchbox in his hand as if it has personally offended him somehow. John sighs and stops pretending to read the newspaper. “You have been staring at that thing forever! Give it a rest.”

“I just can't figure out the light source.”

“Maybe it's magical.”

Sherlock stops frowning at the matchbox long enough to give him a look that says _you're an idiot_.

“Fine.” John goes back to reading the newspaper and Sherlock continues scrutinizing the matchbox. 

After another fifteen minutes of this, John looses his patience, carefully puts the newspaper aside and snatches the matchbox out of Sherlock's hand, who gives him an annoyed frown.

“Maybe I can figure it out.”

Sherlock makes a half-snort sound that clearly conveys his opinion of John's ability to figure it out.

John carefully pushes the matchbox open and looks into the bright light emanating from the inside. Suddenly, the box fades in his hand, as does the chair behind his back. He looks up and sees Sherlock disappear, along with the living room.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

From one heart beat to the next, John sits in the back of a taxi. He hears Sherlock rapidly laying out his first deductions about John Watson and realizes with a start that the words are coming out of his own mouth. He tries to move but he is unable to make Sherlock's muscles obey him. It's like being stuck in a film. He can feel and hear and _experience_ everything, but he cannot divert from the script. 

“That … was amazing.” he hears his other self say from the opposite side of the taxi and feels a surge of surprised joy. He was bracing himself for the usual mix of anger and resentment and is astonished at this unexpected reaction. He tries to keep the surprise out of his voice but fails. 

“Do you think so?” 

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That's not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?

“Piss off.”

He can't help but smile at the doctor, who grins back at him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Suddenly, he stands in the hallway in Baker Street, grinning at John getting his cane handed to him by Angelo in the door frame. A little bit of it is smugness at making John forget his limp, but most of it is real joy. Joy at having chased a criminal with somebody else instead of alone, joy at sharing the adrenaline rush and having finally found somebody _interesting_ for a flat mate. Far in the back of his mind he wonders if this is what it's like to have friends.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Another heart beat and he is slowly walking toward an illuminated pool, looking around carefully.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this.” Sherlock's gaze drifts over the pool area, trying to spot the man he is here to meet.

John enters and Sherlock stares at him in horror and disbelief. The thoughts are racing in his head. _It can't be. God, no. How did I not see this? How did he fool me so completely?_ He feels something cold and terrible settle in his stomach. _Of course, the freak would only make friends with a cold-blooded murderer._

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John. What the hell?“

“Bet you never saw this coming.” John reveals the bomb strapped to his chest and Sherlock doesn't want to feel relieved, because John is in danger, but he cannot help himself. The fear is still there, but the terror he was feeling a moment ago is gone. They can get through this.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

A beat, and he is in the graveyard, watching John Watson stand at his grave. He wants nothing more than to walk over and talk to him. But he knows it is _sentiment_ and he hates himself for it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Another beat and he is in a dark cellar. He is half-slumped, hanging from chains attached to his wrists. There is an intense pain flaring up in his back, a sensation almost like burning. His face hurts, as do his wrists where they chafe against his skin. All he can think about is London, Baker Street, Home, _John_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Suddenly, he stands in a restaurant and stares at John Watson. John's face is full of surprise, hurt, anger, pain. He realizes in that moment the true extend of what he did to John and he thinks _I'm so sorry, John, I didn't know, I'm so so sorry, please forgive me_ but what he says is “Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny.” He is babbling and he knows it. 

Shortly after, when John attacks him, he sees it coming but he doesn't defend himself. In some ways he even tried to provoke it. The anger is easier to deal with than the hurt in John's eyes. His back painfully connects with the floor, wounds that have barely started to heal flaring up in a white-hot shot of pain. He welcomes the distraction.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

In the span of another heart beat, he is sitting on the floor in the flat in Baker Street, mechanically folding napkins, trying not to think about John getting married, John moving to the suburbs, John having children, John living happily ever after. Not thinking about the flat being his, and his alone, again, the experiments spilling out over all surfaces and yet the flat being terribly empty. A cold dread settles in the pit of his stomach and there aren't enough napkins to be folded in the world to distract him from this.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

He walks into the living room and looks at John who is leafing through brochures with wedding venues. He looks at John and knows that this will end, him and John, the cases, the adventures. He looks at John and in his mind he says the words to him, clearly and confidently, _I love you, John. You are the only one I ever wanted to share my life with, the only thing in the world I ever wanted for myself. Don't leave me._ And he hates himself for it. And he hates Mycroft for being right, always being right, because John will leave him and caring is not an advantage. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

And in the blink of an eye, John is himself again, sitting in his chair, staring at the matchbox in his hand. A thousand thoughts are racing through his head and his heart is beating loudly in his ears. Sherlock is looking at him with curiosity in his eyes, clearly trying to figure out what happened. John meets his gaze and suddenly the storm clears and there is only calm clarity. Slowly, he puts the matchbox down on the table and stands up. Sherlock follows his movements, his eyes narrowed. Sherlock's voice is mocking when he says “Don't tell me you figured it out?” John's voice is the opposite, serious and confident. “Yes. I figured it out.” 

Never breaking eye contact, John reaches out his hand. “Get up.” Sherlock is clearly about to protest and demand an explanation, but something makes him stop and, in a rare moment of compliance, he takes John's hand and stands up. John looks up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

“I'm not good at this sort of thing. Ah, scratch that I'm complete rubbish at this sort of thing.” He clears his throat and looks away for a moment. “There are things I should have done and said, but didn't. And things I should have seen but didn't. Well, I saw, but didn't observe.” He smiles at Sherlock, who is looking back at him with a puzzled frown that is incredibly endearing. 

“I guess what I'm trying to say is-” He tries to get the words out and feels a surge of panic when he realizes that even though he knows how Sherlock feels he is still unable to put his own feelings into words. Instead he reaches up with his hand, the one which is not holding Sherlock's, puts it on the detective's neck and slowly goes up on the tip of his toes to place his lips on Sherlock's. 

The other man freezes so completely that John thinks he has probably stopped breathing. It reminds him of the day he asked Sherlock to be his best man. John feels a flicker of doubt and starts to pull back when Sherlock suddenly opens his mouth and wraps his arms around John, tangling one of his hands in his hair. He makes a desperate half-whimper half-moan sound in the back of his throat and it is so at odds with John's picture of Sherlock that it takes him a moment to register it. Sherlock is melting into him and his tongue is darting into his mouth and _Oh God_. 

Minutes or weeks might have passed when John finally pulls back to draw in some desperately needed air. He locks eyes with Sherlock and sees a strange mixture of arousal and horror displayed on his face. Suddenly, his own knees go weak and he drops into the armchair behind him with a thud.

His earlier calm bravery has vanished completely, and the thoughts are tumbling through his head again. He is engaged. He loves Mary and he doesn't want to hurt her. He looks up at Sherlock who is still staring at him in disbelief. John remembers the depth of Sherlock's feelings for him with perfect and utter clarity. He feels things bubbling to the surface of his mind that he had pushed down for so long that he almost made himself believe they were never there to begin with. 

In another moment of clarity, he realizes that there is only one course of action here. Only one course of action that is fair to Sherlock, to himself and to Mary. His gaze locks with Sherlock's again and John smiles up at the detective. There is still a look of confusion and disbelief, but for a split second the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches into a smirk and John knows that everything will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic makes use of the incredible amount of work put into the transcripts at http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/


End file.
